


What happens in New Caprica stays in New Caprica

by ShippyAngel



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, New Caprica, Space Parents, Unfinished Business, a day in the life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippyAngel/pseuds/ShippyAngel
Summary: “It’s a dangerous game we’re playing here.”





	What happens in New Caprica stays in New Caprica

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I mean no profits with this story. The show and its characters belong to their owners. The parts in italic were taken from the actual episode; I just borrowed them for a bit. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: This is an addition to that scene in Unfinished Business (3.09) when Bill and Laura are watching the stars and talking about enjoying life while they can. What actually inspired me was their dialogue in A Day In The Life (3.15). I love how Bill asks "You ever think about the times much on New Caprica?", then says the memory of her in a red dress stands out in his mind. I also love how Laura tries to provoke him, “Like that night [...] That's really what we are talking about here, now, isn't it?” and “I absolutely would've built the cabin”. It made me wonder: what else happened that night? This story is my take on that.

**What happens in New Caprica stays in New Caprica**

By **Shippy Angel**

 

_“Is this really it, Bill?”_ The warmth of his body and the festive atmosphere seem to give Roslin permission to enjoy this moment of tranquility without an ounce of guilt. Judging by the amount of chemicals running through her veins, she’s been doing that for hours now. And, gods, does it feel good… _“Is this how we're gonna spend all the rest of our days?”_

 

He stays quiet, as she thought he would. Turning her face towards him just a slightest degree, without taking her eyes off the starry sky, she tries to instigate a reaction, _“Hmm?”_ , feeling his eyes on her.

 

They’ve been doing this a lot lately – calling each other by their given names, not their surnames or titles –, whenever they are alone. But never as often as today. Adama takes a deep breath and allows whatever is left of their cigar to drop from his fingers; lets it fall on the ground, and only relaxes when he sees that the flames have seceded and will not set anything on fire. A sudden gust of wind hits their spot, and he feels Roslin’s body shaking like a leaf. Dropping his guard a little bit more than he already had when they decided to leave the party behind to isolate themselves on the outside of her tent, he invites her silently by opening his arms.

 

And she goes, so willingly, adjusting her body to his as if they have been doing this for a long time now. Yes, they have gotten closer lately; have enjoyed each other’s company on and off the clock, sharing dinner in his quarters at least once a week; have read paragraphs of a book to one another and talked over the phone late at night, but… they have never shared this much skin contact.

 

Roslin traps Adama’s left arm between her limbs before whispering, _“Maybe we should just enjoy this.”_

Adama turns his face towards her just a bit. It only takes him a fraction of a second to confess, _“I am.”_ He’s seen the school where she will teach kids who are lucky enough to enjoy her presence every day, a version of her he has not met before and perhaps never will; has been having the privilege of her exclusive company for hours now, after days of not seeing her at all; he gets to feel the curve of her breasts surrounding his muscles and every breath he takes brings a drop of the intoxicating scent of her skin and fruity shampoo along with it. He is not a complicated man, he thinks; she should know that by now.

_“No, no”_ , she’s quick to clarify. _“I mean enjoy being here… on this planet… as long as it lasts.”_ She’s inebriated enough to dig her fingernails a little bit deeper into his jacket, clearly feeling him up. He’s loving this side of her – so giggly and carefree – and hypothesizes that this must have been the type of woman she was in Caprica, without the burden of leading thousands of people through the universe. _“I mean, maybe the Cylons come back, maybe they don't, but for now, right now...”_ He feels so warm and solid that all she wants is to hide her face in the space where his shoulder and neck meet. _“We've got a break.”_ She states, not knowing if she is referring to the rest of humanity anymore, or just the two of them.

 

_“I've got people that want to get off the ship, move down here”_ , he offers, with that deep sexy voice of his, after admitting to himself how good it feels to be able to share his thoughts with someone; with her.

_“Can't say as I blame them.”_ She feels, rather than sees, his ribcage expanding with his every intake of air, and touches his chest as if trying to alleviate some of the weight in his decision-making process. _“I mean, what are you gonna do?”_

 

“I don’t know”, he answers truthfully as his mind begins to wander. The soldier in him cannot contemplate leaving his people unguarded; cannot even begin to imagine laying his head on a pillow without expecting the Cylons to destroy New Caprica at any given moment. But the man, in contrast, is tired of fighting and wants to settle down for whatever chance of normalcy he can get. To adjust back to a day-and-night routine, to be able to grill his own dinner, to see his people laughing again, to watch Laura bathing by the river and get to know her better, and better, and better. Looking back to the days when he was oblivious to the existence of Laura Roslin, it makes sense now why life always felt so hollow, so incomplete. Something about her is so frakking addictive… it almost pisses him off. Adama wants to take another drag now; debates on whether to continue this potentially-dangerous conversation they’re having or change the topic altogether. He chances a quick glance at her elegant profile and makes up his mind. “Tell me more about your cabin and, who knows”, he shifts his stuffy expression to a charming smirk that makes him look a lot less exhausted, and at least two decades younger, “I might be convinced to stay.”

 

Roslin chuckles, bending to brush the bridge of her nose against the soft fabric of his uniform. She loves this rare flirty side of his and takes pride in the fact that she’s caught his attention with the whole idea of sinking roots in New Caprica, knowing deep down that he is just entertaining the thought: Bill would never, not in a million years, leave Galactica behind – not so long as the Cylons are still out there posing them a threat. Resting her chin on his chest, she moves to take the cigarette from him, and only realizes he has stopped smoking when the tips of her fingers meet his empty hand. He opens his palm apologetically. Her eyes lit up as she digs into the left cup of her bra to catch another thin roll. The corners of her lips lift higher when she feels the density of his gaze lingering on her cleavage for a lot longer than he normally does.

 

“My cabin”, she sighs, bringing his focus back to her eye level. Roslin presses the cigarette between her lips, cups two fingers around the ends of it, and slides her face closer to his, silently asking for fire. Adama reaches for his father’s lighter and sets a spark to her. Shoving it back into his pockets, he decides to lie sideways, now that it seems that she’s feeling a little warmer, putting enough distance so that they can face each other more comfortably without dispersing too much body heat. Roslin runs her hand through her auburn hair, pulling most locks to one side in way that makes it really hard for him not to reach out to touch them, before resting the weight of her head on her fist. “Let me think”, she bites the corner of her lips in indecision, as if she hasn’t already pictured her little dream-house in New Caprica to a tee. After two drags, she passes the cigarette over to him and looks out to the horizon. “I want to set my bare feet on the wooden floor and hear the rain on the rooftop. Have a fireplace in a corner”, she pauses dramatically, and stare right into his slightly red and glassy eyes, “and a bookrack in another.” The tension between them gets a little thicker because talking about books is placing him right in that room alongside her without saying so. “It’d be nice to wake up with rays of sun coming through the window.” She closes her eyes and angles her head backwards to find the moon that’s shinning above them, letting the breeze wash over her body.

 

Adama takes a moment of her distraction to savor the sight of her throat and chest exposed to him; to slide his gaze through her curves, plains and valleys; to admire the dark tone of her clothes in contrast to her porcelain skin. He blows a puff so that the smoke leaving his lungs can caress her where his digits and lips cannot. In New Caprica, it’s hard to remember that she used to be Commander in Chief and so easy to realize the hell of a woman she is. A voice inside his head tells him to get a grip and he complies with it. “It could take a while to make that happen”, he mentions with his typical businesslike voice. “A lot of preparation and hard work”, bringing them back to reality and sliding the roll of native herbs back to her fingers once she’s facing him again. He gets lost in her eyes for a while; notices her pupils dilated, before adding, “I could give you a hand whenever I’m around.”

 

“That’s very kind of you”, she takes a long drag while fixing her gaze on his, picturing a handful of other scenarios where his hands could be put to a much better use. She breathes out and allows herself a moment to dissipate the thick fog of whatever-it-is-that-she-is-feeling-right-now clouding her brain. “Though I’m not convinced that is such a good idea.” Roslin shakes her head, fighting his sudden frown with a wicked grin, “The military can be quite evasive.”

 

His reply is the perfect mixture of arrogance and playfulness; a tone that she seems to evoke without effort. “Well, maybe in this case I should be, Ms. Roslin”, twitching an eyebrow at her insolence. “I bet I could spot a dozen familiar novels in that little bookshelf of yours.”

 

Roslin bites down on her lower lip, “I thought they were a gift, Admiral?”  

 

They share a comfortable laugh, and he pushes the issue a little further, though in a different direction. “Is that as far as it goes?” His expression is curious, as if he really is committed to bring that cabin into existence. “Do you imagine anything else?”

 

She gestures affirmatively with her head, but it takes a good number of seconds before she confirms it with words, “I do”, and even longer for her to volunteer any additional information. Roslin takes a hold of Adama’s biceps and bends her body over to her left side to shove the end of the cigarette on the ground. She feels him grabbing her by the elbow to provide more support and stability, relishing on the sensation of his hard muscles moving beneath her fingertips while watching the small flames fade away into the alluvial deposits. Those two words make her lips curl upward – ‘alluvial deposits’, not sand; she will never forget that. “Thank you”, she murmurs appreciatively, then lets go of her grip on him to brace her weight on her right arm once again; only, this time, a little bit closer to him. “There’s a moment that always comes to me”, she whispers, “Lee and Kara are lying down by the fire after dinner.” Roslin smiles sheepishly, and Adama’s heart start jumping a little faster, though he succeeds in keeping a neutral appearance. Just like mentioning a bookrack, including his son and surrogate daughter in the idea of a cabin where she lives is placing Adama there as well. But, this time, Roslin makes his participation quite clear, “You and Lee are having a silly argument, as usual”, she snorts and rolls her eyes. “Then they’re off to some party at the village because that’s what young people do when the world has not gone to shit.”

 

Adama barks out a laugh at her choice of words, feeling a warm, exquisite sensation spreading through his guts. Still, he can’t help but tease her, “I suppose I’d be getting kicked out as well?”

 

 “Oh, I don’t know…”, Laura flutters her eyelashes. “Maybe if you offered to help with the dishes I could let you stay a little longer.”

 

The smug look in her eyes is his undoing.

 

“Long enough to watch the sunrise through your windowpane?” For just a second, he catches a flash of surprise in her eyes as her expression grows humorless at his suggestion. Adama often forgets that they met right before a post-apocalyptical world; that though they have been spending a lot of time together, she is mostly familiar with his professional façade, unaware of his transgressive nature: the chaos of a bad boy inside a good guy’s armor of social _decorum_. He is not sure if it’s because they are high as hell, but he feels like he might just let her see some of it through its cracks tonight; feels she has already.

 

Roslin starts giggling that silly way she does, and he finds it adorable.

 

Their eyes meet, jokingly, and they just lie there: calming down their breaths and welcoming this whole day as a gift that New Caprica has offered to them.

 

Adama zeroes in on Roslin; finally allows himself to be pulled in by her gravity; not resisting, not feeling guilty about giving in. He is not sure how long this so-called peace is going to last but knows for a fact that he will go back to Galactica in less than twenty-four hours and she will stay on New Caprica, trying to build a well-deserved new life for herself. He won’t forget her, can’t forget her; knows she’s staked a claim on his life and heart and mind. But organizing a catalogue labeled ‘Laura Roslin’ in his memory palace will help him bear the days without her. He starts with her most faithful company, which is nowhere to be seen now: the delicate pair of glasses that’s always balancing so perfectly on her nose, how she wears it like an armor and all the things it cannot hide from him. The wrinkles around her lips and in the corner of her eyes whenever she is deep in thought. Her cute little nose; her stunning green eyes that sometimes change to a grey tone and can express a hundred different emotions depending on what and with whom she’s talking. Her mouth, always so inviting, and the dozens different smiles she’s sent his way. Her laugh, dear gods, her laugh; especially the one that ends with a cute little _hmm_. That sweet voice of hers over the wireless; her commanding tone when she disapproves of him. Her hair, wild and put together at the same time; its color somewhere along the spectrum of red and black, depending on the source of light surrounding her. Her thin arms and strong, delicate hands; her beautiful nails. Her perfectly-sculptured collarbone that he can’t help but wonder what it must taste like. Her full breasts, filling up her shirts in the most delicious way. Her narrow hips and well-round ass that fit so well into those presidential skirts of hers. Her legs; gods, her legs; he could stare at them all day, would love to spend hours just worshiping them and her calves. Her class; her virtues and contradictions: sensitive and relentless, discreet and powerful, generous and mysterious. Thinking of Laura is falling for the way her beautiful, beautiful mind works, though too witty and sassy for her own good sometimes. Sitting down with her to deal with a crisis is like playing a game of chess he can’t get enough of. Her extraordinary analytical and interpersonal skills. It’s her way to calm him down just by touching him on the inside of his elbow, grounding him, when he’s angry and cannot see straight. It’s keeping him company when everybody else just wants to get the hell out of his way. It’s being the only person who has questioned his commands in years. Her effortless ability to lead people and make hard decisions; always brave enough to take the consequences of whatever choices she makes, never hiding behind excuses. Her capacity to endure pain and never complain; her silent cry of grief when she bid her goodbye to Billy at the morgue. Her vulnerability when she’s alone with him. Laura Roslin is so complex and fascinating that it feels like she is made up of six different women inhabiting a single body. The exchange she offers goes way beyond any connection he’s ever had with anybody before, including the mother of his children. It hurts to realize how unfair to Carolanne that is; but still true... If onl–

 

The image of Roslin shaking her head from side to side pulls Adama out of his dream land. He wonders, irrationally, if she could have somehow read his mind all along or – frak, he has spoken his thoughts out loud!? “What?”, he questions, sounding hoarse, because what else can he say?

 

Roslin casts her eyes downward, feeling a blush spread throughout her chest and the tip of her ears; feeling them burn. “It’s been awhile since someone has look at me like that”, she confesses, looking back up and smiling into his eyes, “It’s all.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like…” She drags her tongue through her lips to hydrate them and looks to the left side of her field of vision. It’s so dark out here, she can’t see much beyond her tent. But what she’s actually trying to find is the memory of how men used to look at her in Caprica so that she can describe that raw look in Adama’s eyes just a few seconds ago. “Like they wanna eat me up.”

 

“I find that hard to believe”, he answers without skipping a beat, not conceding or refuting her supposition that that was how he was looking at her.

 

Roslin tilts her head to the side, not knowing what to make out of his response. “Well, don’t”, she says anyway, focusing on arguing against his opinion rather than acknowledging the big elephant in the room. “I got put into an unbelievable position that I had not initially signed up for. You and I both know how much people questioned if I was prepared for it. Frak, you questioned it! ‘ _We’re at war and you’re taking orders from a frakking school teacher?!_ ’, remember?” She shoots him a moody look and feels her mouth twist in amusement the moment he rolls his eyes, as though saying ‘I’ll never live that down, will I?’ “Well, _I_ ’ll never forget that”, she complains with a hint of humor in her voice and only continues when she feels that he is studying her profile, offering his full attention. “But that was expected, right?” She follows the shape of a constellation that looks like a boat with her eyes. “The thing is that some of them still wonder if a woman can possess leadership skills which are usually perceived as biologically male, and it pisses me off.” Roslin sounds troubled and it’s in moments like these that Adama knows the wound of losing the election still stings and maybe forever will. “I think somewhere along the way I internalized that and got so committed to getting things done that I lost sight of my femininity.”

 

“I believe in this case you _can_ have your cake and eat it too”, Adama interjects with a shake of his head, understanding the meaning of her words but disagreeing with them. “You’ve done a formidable job being the President that our fleet needed. Nobody has any grounds to question that.” He grabs the back of his neck, trying to ease a knot of tension that’s been bugging him for a few minutes now. “It has also been quite clear from the beginning that you are _very_ much a woman. Even if you tried, Laura, I don’t think you could ever lose that quality about you.” He adjusts himself on his seat, trying to buy some time to choose his words carefully, so that she can understand things from a different perspective. Isn’t that what they do best, after all? “Men are attracted to women in power, but also threatened by them. They might not _approach_ you for that very reason, but... In Colonial One, Cloud Nine, hell, even Galactica… Men are _very much aware_ of you”, he grumbles, clenching his teeth.

 

She narrows her eyes, “Is that so?”

 

“Yeah”, he upholds, not letting go of her gaze. “But you know that, don’t you?”, Adama challenges her, knowing fully well she is not a clueless girl; admitting at least to himself that this is one of the reasons why he is so attracted to her. “You’re a woman, Laura. You can tell they stare.”

 

“I do”, she feels a little too full of herself for the first time in years. “I do know that, Bill”, she repeats, not giving him an excuse to think she’s trying to evade this conversation. Roslin takes a deep breath, not knowing how he is going to take her next words but certain that she will not be able to take them back. “Just as I know that you stared right back at them when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

 

Adama is startled by her observation but reacts fast enough (to try) not to show. “Somebody had to remind them that you were the President of the Twelve Colonies”, he puffs out his chest, spitting out the dry and unattached words as if they are a speech that he spent a lot of time memorizing and repeating.

 

“Oh, is that what you were doing, Bill, when you reproached them?” she questions, pointing her chin towards him. “Reminding them that I was ‘The President’?” She mimics the quotation marks with her fingers, not buying his words for one godsdamned second. Roslin can’t figure out how they got to this point, having danced around each other for two long years now. But here they are, and she only wants to keep moving forward. “You know, maybe they are not intimidated by my status, after all. Maybe it’s you”, she stresses out by poking his chest with her index finger, “they’re afraid of.”

 

He reacts by holding on to her wrist; his eyes sharp as razors. She thinks he might push her away; figures she’s finally crossed the line. “Tom Zarek seems to be the only one who doesn’t catch my drift, then”, he rumbles, grumpily, and she replies, “I beg your pardon?”, and they both release a rich laugh. It’s not long before he relaxes his grip and waits a beat before checking her pulse with two of his fingers. He must have liked the evidence of her fast-beating heart, she thinks, because he soon opens his palm against the back of her hand to slowly navigate through her forearm, her elbow, her upper arm, her shoulder… Adama tests her pulse again, on her neck this time; watches goosebumps erupting on her skin before lifting a handful of her hair. His blue orbits switch back and forth between the path of his hands and her eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. Whatever he’s found there seems to have given him permission to calmly follow the extension of her spine with his fingertips. “Do you want me to stop?”, he asks sincerely, tracing his thumb up and down the contours of her ribs, waist and hip.

 

Roslin doesn’t know what he’s asking exactly; does she want him to stop staring down at men who are ogling her, or stop touching her right now? She doesn’t particularly care, either. She doesn’t want him to stop at all.

 

When he tightens his grip on her hipbone, she moves closer to his body, balancing her left leg on top of his right one, so closely that her chest is almost rubbing up against his. Losing herself into his eyes, she dares imagine, for the first time, meeting him back in Caprica City when their world was a lot less complicated. She plays with the idea that they would have bumped into each other on the train station at rush hour or be waiting in line to buy a cup of tea first thing in the morning, finding themselves in a casual conversation, an instant attraction. ‘Hey, what is that book you’re reading? I like reading too. That’s my favorite author, in fact. Oh really? Mine as well’ – the dialogue comes so clearly to her mind. Two strangers exchanging a smile and trying to make the eye contact last longer. She wonders how long it would have taken her to find the guts to invite him over for dinner in her apartment whenever he was off the clock and finally having a good enough reason to end that poor excuse of a relationship she had with Adar. Roslin thinks of how many women must have shaken hands with Bill and mistakenly believed that he was just another ordinary man with nothing extraordinary to offer. And, gods, were they wrong! She, herself, was wrong; thinking back to how much she despised him when they first met; how his typical military bravado made her skin crawl. And happy to realize how his stubbornness and kindness have proved her wrong. Her gaze settles on his and she gives in to how much she really loves his deep blue eyes, with just a twist of brown in the center; loves the wisdom, the passion and the anger he conveys in them, and the self-control he uses to hide it. She loves the fact that he lets her in when no one is around and all the silent conversations they have. Her focus switches to the lines on his forehead, temples and cheeks telling the stories of the battles he has endured, both as a man and as a soldier. She loves the masculine cut of his jawline. And his smiles, dear gods, his smiles; she loves them the most. Has a whole archive of them in her mind: the smartass know-it-all one, the overconfident, the uncomfortable, the wicked, and the carefree (this one is her favorite because it gives her a glimpse of the boy he used to be). She loves that husky voice of his calling her name in a way nobody does and reading excerpts of his books after a particularly stressful day. That musky scent that’s all male and all him combined with smell of fresh clothes all over his quarters; a scent that follows her all the way back to a raptor but disappears before she makes it to Colonial One. She loves his big, powerful hands; the firm presence of his fingertips touching her lower back whenever they walk side by side. She loves the muscles on his arms and his behind; the whole set of his bulky body. She can only imagine how they must feel pining her down to a mattress on a long, lazy night. His loyalty to a fault; his compromise to fight for his people no matter the cost. His problem-solving skills and that brilliant mind of his. His exceptional judgement of character and unfathomable empathy for others. A personality that demands respect to the point where the room goes silent whenever he walks in. The look of awe that every single one of his subordinates send his way; his innate ability to know the difference between being a boss and being a leader. His commitment to knowing the name of each member of his crew and visiting them in sickbay after a mission goes sour in the middle of the night so no one, other than nurses and doctors, will know. His protective nature; his blunt honesty with her no matter the circumstances, even if it hurts. Most of all, she loves his faithfulness; the fact that, however badly his marriage may have ended, as she’s caught Lee implying sometimes, he is nothing but respectful towards the memory of his wife and is never seen without the golden band of commitment on his left ring finger. She is somewhat jealous of that, but somewhat captivated as well.

 

Roslin reaches out to Adama with slightly trembling fingers. The pad of her thumb caresses his new mustache, trying to decide if she prefers him with or without it. She goes over the surprisingly soft skin of his lips, following the thin line that separates them as if trying to commit that shape to memory and visit it when he’s gone. She follows an imaginary vertical line on his forehead all the way down to the bridge of his nose with her middle finger, then slides her pinky through his temple and cheek. Not resisting the urge any longer, she finally takes a hold of his short hair, massaging his scalp with her nails. Hears him swallow a groan when she teases his ear shell; boldly pinches his earlobe to find out what other reaction she can incite in him. Roslin’s grip finds residence at the nape of his neck as she pulls his face towards hers oh so slowly.

 

Their breaths mingle, and they look at each other intently.

 

His right hand splays over her thigh, still covered by the thin fabric of her dress. He spreads his fingers as if trying to measure how much of her flesh he can grab with one palm, then braces the weight of his body on his left elbow, reaching out to grasp at the mass of her curls with his otherwise empty hand. He pulls at her silky locks and hears her hiss of pleasure, dipping his face into her collarbone. “Gods damn it, Laura”, he complains against her skin the minute her right knee bumps against his erection; the hunger in his voice so plainly obvious, “It’s a dangerous game we’re playing here.”

 

Roslin’s eyes twinkle dangerously, though he can’t see it, loving to be at end of this more aggressive side of him other than in a political debate. She challenges his grip on her hair by lifting her upper body, and wins, bringing her face close enough to the side of his to whisper into his ear, “Conflict of interests is not an issue anymore, Bill.” Her right hand, which was resting between them, comes to play, scraping his golden military insignia pin. “Though you’re still their Admiral, I am no longer their President.”

 

Adama’s eyes roll to the back of his head, where all he can find is a tempting darkness that only serves to heighten his other senses. He sinks his face into her neck, realizing how much stronger her scent is right at that spot; how much warmer she feels in contrast and despite of the crispy cold air surrounding them. “Still a distraction, Laura”, he growls, nuzzling her pulse point with the tip of his nose. “A hell of a distraction”, he repeats, looking down to the gorgeous valley between her breasts and the constellation of freckles she has in that spot.

 

“We could always”, she suggests with a secretive smile and labored breathing, her voice sounding like a purr the instant she feels his right thigh insinuating itself between her legs, brushing her cheek back and forth against his, enjoying the scratch of his stubble, “blame it on the booze.”

 

Adama lays a finger under her chin, holding her in place. “What is it exactly that you’re proposing, uh?” He shakes his head skeptically before edging their faces closer. Yeah, their inhibitions may have been lowered because they’re stoned, but so what? They both know it’s the years of frustration and sexual tension that have brought them here; both want to believe that it was the never-ending list of duties and responsibilities that forced them to deny it when, in fact, it was and still is simply fear keeping them apart. The heat in his eyes make they seem pitch black as he scans her face for any indication of uncertainty, or traces of an intention to play with him. All they find, though, is the very moment when her white teeth sink into her lower lip, slowly letting it go, openly baiting him. He can’t stand to suppress this attraction anymore; decides they have tortured themselves long enough.

 

But when he moves his face to finally kiss her, she draws herself back, arching her eyebrows in a playful challenge. And when she tips her head forward to reach for his mouth, he’s the one falling backwards to escape from her assault, waggling his eyes stubbornly.

 

Two can play this game.

 

And it lasts for half a minute.

 

They are panting heavily by now, heads pushing and retreating non-stop, noses bumping into one another, lips barely grazing, teasing each other out to the point of exasperation. Their battle for control seems to have followed them here all the way up from the CIC and long board meetings.

 

Adama is the one to put an end to it by grabbing her head more firmly and lowering his so that their mouths can finally meet. At first, he satiates some of his appetite with just the feeling of the dry, outside part of her lips. She is so unbelievably soft – way softer than he remembers –, and he has to fight hard against the instinct to bite down on her as he would a Caprican peach. He holds himself back; it’s only a touch of lips; the first, small step into the inevitable plot they have been writing together since they met. If there is one thing he is grateful for the passage of time is to have lost the anxiety to rush through a fantastic moment. But when he hears her weeping his name, he decides to invest in the kiss a little bit further, brushing his lips against the line that separates hers, still gently and carefully, to find the faint smoky taste of the cigarettes they have shared throughout the day combined with something spicy that’s all Laura. “Bill!”, she repeats, with a note of irritation in her voice, parting her lips so he can finally find some moisture – which he does, fully diving his face into hers. She lets him capture her lower lip so that she can suck on his upper one with both her lips, appreciating the hint of alcohol that she finds there and the slippery feel of his saliva.

 

Both Adama and Roslin release a heavy sigh when they part; revel in the pleasure of feeling the carbon dioxide leaving their lungs in sharp relief, fighting for space in the small interval between their nostrils.

 

Eyes open slowly; chests rising and falling.

 

They share a faint smile of pure intimacy, feeling raw and exposed and unafraid. Their eyes keep on chasing one another in fascination, then lowering down to watch each other’s lips, then back up again.

 

Roslin cups his face; brings him impossibly closer. She kisses him tenderly at first, humming a little at the back of her throat, and taking them back to the sweetness of their first kisses. She sees him closing his eyes with mischief in her own, but it’s not long before her eyelids feel heavy as well. She darts out her tongue across his lips, takes his sharp inhale as an explicit permission to finally, _finallyfinallyfinally_ , godsdamnit, tug his lower lip between her teeth. Adama releases an agonizing sound of longing, before closing his fist more strongly through the locks of her hair, closing his own teeth on her upper lip as a retribution.

 

He feels his lips burning so good and the adrenaline rushing through his veins seems way more stimulating than when he first flew a viper. His right hand heads upward to feel the shape and weight of her left breast, brushing him thumb over the erect nipple he can feel through the material of her dress, shirt and thin coat. “Gods, woman!”

 

“Your voice is so”, she finally confesses the words that have been swimming through her head since meeting him, “frakking delicious”, sliding down her left hand to find something solid to cling to. She curls her fingers around his hipbone and holds him in place so that she can buck the apex of her thighs more forcefully against his thigh, moaning into his now open mouth. She’s wet enough so that the friction is just perfect, and her toes curl deliciously in consequence of that.

 

This feels goods.

 

It feels really, really, really good.

 

Adama deepens the kiss, pulling the skirt of her dress high enough so that he can find the velvet skin of her leg; his digits crawling higher and higher to squeeze the sweet curve of her ass. He breaks their connection, lowering his face so that he can grab even more of her. “You smell so frakking good”, he claims against her chest, before looking up once again to push his tongue past hers, crooking his head to the side to better fit their lips, feeling his body stiffen even more as a response to the wet sound of their mouths drinking from one another.

 

Roslin lets go of her grip on his jacket so that her right hand can travel up to the sweaty base of his neck, where she sinks down the nails without mercy. Her body arches to meet his every time his wet lips move in a different direction against hers. She makes an arousing sound and sets her lips apart to swallow his hot tongue, as they tangle in a sloppy motion.

 

Adama can’t help but groan when he feels her right knee bumping perpetually against the hard seam of his pants. His tongue flicks over the roof of her mouth, hears her whimpers of desire as she sucks it in, then retreats so that their lips can nip on each other once again.

 

It takes them minutes to part, hesitantly, dragging in shaky pants.

 

Fingertips keep on tracing skin; palms trying to memorize newly-discovered shapes and textures.

 

 “What happens in New Caprica stays in New Caprica?”, Roslin suggests warmly, between breaths; her tone of voice so low that it sends an electric impulse straight down his balls. Adama frowns at first, and when the meaning of her words finally sinks in, he finds it impossible to formulate a coherent response when she’s all dainty and warm and willing and deliciously feminine around his arms; when all he wants is to take her right here, to feel her heat and fragrance all over him and the wind punishing his drenched back as he pushes himself all the way into her; all the way home. Adama breathes in slowly, hoping that the oxygen will help him make the right call. Her proposal sounds tempting as frak but less than ideal. One taste of her will never be enough to satiate his hunger; it will only multiply his craving, make it even worse to bear. He knows that whatever tomorrow brings, at some point they will reunite, and he won’t be able to brush this off as another one-night stand; will be even more protective of her and she’s gonna hate him for that because Laura Roslin is as independent as they come. But that vicious little voice inside his head keeps on nagging him: are you man enough to walk away from her right now?

 

She seems to have figured out his answer before he, himself, does. Roslin drops her gaze to his mouth, grazing his swollen lips with her thumb nail, before getting up gracefully from the sandbags where they have been resting on. She looks up to the sky once more, hands on her hips. Then she breathes out slowly, finds Adama’s eyes in the darkness, and reaches out her right hand towards him. “So say we all?”, she asks, with asks with a self-confident tone of voice and a small flicker of apprehension within her irises.

 

His voice is rougher than usual when he speaks the first thing that comes to mind, directing his warmest smile at her with a nod, “So say we all.” Trust Laura to completely subvert the meaning of those words in the greatest way possible. His right hand meets hers as soon as he sits down, kissing her knuckles while getting up to stand in front of her. He lifts his left palm high enough to caress the side of her face, her ear shell, fingers weaving into her hair, his eyes never dropping from hers.

 

Her eyes sparkle, and her lips stretch in a long line of bliss and plain happiness. She’s feeling sexy as hell and it must show because she’s never looked more beautiful, he thinks, than she does now, leading him towards her tent, always leading him, her grip never letting go of his.

 

But right before she can step in, Adama holds her hand tighter, keeping her from moving forward. When she turns around, silently questioning him with her perfect lifted eyebrows, he holds her open palm against his chest, so that she can feel the hammering of his heart; the way she makes him feel, the way it’s always been.

 

The corners of her mouth turn up, infatuated, as she sees his blue eyes drowning; feels her own burning. They smile to each other through tears. She steps up closer to hold him in her arms, feeling a shudder passing through her body the moment he responds by hugging her more tightly. She feels him move and hears the _whoosh_ sound of the flap of her tent. When she opens her eyes, she sees him, always the gentleman, holding it open so that she can step in first.

 

And she does.

 

And he follows.

 

With each piece of clothing that they slowly strip off each other, each of their other social personas lay to the ground.

 

Bill and Laura are the only ones allowed in.

 

That little corner of the universe that they have just created for themselves is the only witness of their complete surrender; of their sighs, groans, and muffled screams. Of kissing, and tasting, and licking, and sucking and biting. Of watching, and learning, and listening, and repeating, and grabbing, and then looking proudly at the evidences they leave behind: her skin marked with bruises and hickeys, his with bite marks and nail scratches. Their common fears, lost certainties and past ghosts; their hopes, whispered confessions, secret jokes, and laughs; her bunk sheets impregnated with their juices, their sweat and their tears.

 

A soft breeze comes through a tiny crack in the flap of Laura’s tent that Bill left open on purpose just so that a couple of rays of the New Caprican sun can come through to bless them in the morning.

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> I have only started watching BSG a couple of weeks ago. I know, I know; don’t judge me. Haha I didn’t want to do it; my poor fangirl heart needed a break from SciFi series. But my husband insisted that it was a must-watch (hardcore fan that he is) and I decided to give it a go. I’m completely in love with the show and infatuated with the Space Parents relationship. On their very first scene together, I asked him, “They’re married, right?!” He just laughed and answered, “Keep watching the damn show.” I’m glad I did. :)   
> Thank you for reading!


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